Chapter 1

Wes

“You do know you’re not actually Batman, right?” Justus “J.T.” Reese, my best friend since childhood, my business colleague, and biggest pain in the ass, questions on a chortle from his dark leather seat on the other side of my desk. “I mean, I know you’re obviously into leather too, but-”

One harsh glance upward cuts off his good-natured taunting.

As it should.

I’m far from in the mood for his bullshit.

Jokes.

Reasons for smiling.

I’m never in the mood for smiling.

And I’ve come to the basic conclusion I never will be.

Which is fine.

He gets paid to smile.

I make our investors enough money not to.

“At least I’m pretty sure he’s into leather,” he needlessly continues yet again distracting me from the paper document I’m doing my best to quickly scan. “He’s definitely into bondage.”

There’s no pause for my commentary.

Not that I planned to give it.

“No dude woul-”

“Don’t say dude,” I chastise in tandem with flipping to the next page. “You’re not a second-year senior struggling to graduate Clover Rose with a degree in computer science anymore.”

“I didn’t struggle ,” J.T. instantly argues like I knew he would. “I was a double major! You have any idea how fucking hard it is to master both computer shit and business shit all while interning at one of the largest and most lucrative companies in the world.”

“ Paid interning, ” is muttered during another page turn.

“Is this why Batman barely talked in the suit? To avoid pissing off Nightwing all the time?”

“He talked often in the suit, hence the extensive online conversations and debates regarding the ‘bat rasp’ in movies.” Reaching the last page precedes briefly meeting his hazel gaze with my mismatched one. “And he talked even more in the comics. Including the latest issues I have delivered straight to the estate.”

My attention has barely returned to the stack of papers when he playfully pokes, “Do you have a secret bat-filled cave I somehow know nothing about?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying no to end this conversation?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying no so that I don’t go looking for one?”

“No.”

“Are you hoping that by saying no repeatedly I forgo this conversation and choose a different one?”

Yes.

But I know better than to give him that answer.

Or really any answer.

To end a conversation with him – any conversation – is done by disengaging.

It’s one of those things that makes him a blessing in the boardroom, but a burden as a best friend.

Then again, it’s probably my fucking fault he’s this way to begin with.

Perhaps if I were a bit more normal, he would be.

“Have you given anymore thought to opening another distillery near Applecourt?” J.T. casually inquires prior to me scribbling my name on the final line.

“No.”

“Have you considered my proposal about opening them to tours to become a tourist attraction in major areas such as Keleston?”

Sliding the forms across the table is attached to a repeated answer. “No.”

“Have you considered the ratings and location app idea where consumers would be able to not only rank their personal preferred flavors in their accounts but track where it’s socially available, thus putting my degree and passion of both technology integration and the alcohol business to profitable use?”

“No.”

“Have you considered my proposal about holiday themed events at the larger distilleries?

“No.”

“ Will you consider my proposals? Any of them?”

Rather than answer, I simply lean back in my seat.

Fold my olive-skinned hands on my stomach.

“ Batman would approve all of my proposals,” my best friend juvenilely jeers. “Especially for hosting a Halloween bash. It’s festive .”

“It’s irresponsible.”

“ It’s fun. ”

“It’s a liability. ”

His immediate, sarcastic head tilt pulls a ridiculously heavy sigh out of me.

Thank fuck, I only have one best friend.

Anymore and I’d most likely stroke out before I hit thirty.

I don’t need more opposing opinions.

I don’t want more opposing opinions.

“Hosting an event where minors are openly allowed to mingle and interact around alcohol creates legality issues. And for what? So that the company can be momentarily branded as one that ‘connects’ with its community?”

J.T.’s navy blue suit covered shoulders instantly sink in disappointment.

“And for the record – as the only person in the room who has read upward of a thousand comics featuring the caped, bondage loving crusader – I can effortlessly conclude that he prefers to alleviate minor related drama not elevate it.” The smallest twitch at the corner of my lips occurs. “Besides, Bruce Wayne runs the business side of it all and – like myself – avoids the professional conferences, boardroom meetings, and all other face to face encounters whenever possible. Batman fought crime.”

Being the majority shareholder of my family’s company – by vast proportions – gives me certain liberties such as not having to be physically present outside of the estate.

They may hear my voice.

They may feel my wrath.

But they will not see my face.

They don’t need to see my face.

No one needs to see the grotesque beast of a billionaire I’ve become.

It’s bad enough that those on my staff have no choice.

I refuse to become the public’s mockery, to make a mockery, of my family’s legacy simply because those with nothing better to do want to see the mogul behind the money.

The monster.

It may be my name on the company logo, but nowhere in the bylaws does it require it to be my face.

I checked.

And then had Harry Hawthorne – who is now head of all legal – check.

And then add in a clause for reinforcement.

“You’re right…” J.T. slowly nods and readjusts his striped tie, golden bronze fingers fiddling longer than necessary out of irritation. “Bruce ran Wayne Enterprises a lot like you run Wilcox Enterprises.”

“I like to think I run mine better.”

“However, he did that to help fund his bat lifestyle.” It’s his turn to fight a smirk. “His bat lifestyle, which literally saved lives, including his own. ”

My life doesn’t need to be saved.

I still loathe the fact it was the only one that survived a decade ago.

I don’t deserve to live.

I deserved to die yet was forced to live.

In the somber shadows.

Cold nights.

Haunted mornings.

I may be alive , but I repeat.

I do not deserve to live.

I am here solely to keep their lineage going.

The memory of them pristine.

Due to the desk phone ringing, I don’t have to provide a rebuttal.

Not that I was going to.

One swift push of the button precedes me answering, “Yes?”

“Wes,” Juan Carlos – affectionally called Lucky for as long as I can remember – the head chef of my estate, cautiously begins, “I know you’re in your meeting, so I’m sorry to interrupt-”

“It’s fine,” I instantly assure at the same time I lock eyes with my best friend. “ It’s over .”

J.T. rolls his before dramatically exiting with a snatch of the paperwork.

“Clark’s on his way to retrieve you.”

“For?”

“Hamilton wants to discuss Lauren’s health status.”

“Why didn’t he just call himself?”

“He says he needs to do it face to face.”

“Question remains.”

“He needed to washup after their visit – medical protocols or some shit – and apparently, I’m not busy busting my ass, trying to make enough tembleque for everyone on the staff to celebrate Cassandra’s over the top ‘Around the World in 40 Years’ themed birthday party tonight, around filling weekly food orders, redirecting misplaced products, and teaching these wish they were sous-chefs how to properly clean copper pots!”

Pressing my lips together traps in my chortle.

“He’s in the medical suite,” Lucky informs over clamoring sounds. “The place where you deliver bottled water not bottles of distilled vinegar!”

“They’re both clear,” someone sasses in the background.

“You motherfuc-” is all that I hear courtesy of him abruptly ending the call.

Like most of the department heads of the estate, he’s been around long enough to earn his occasionally ornery nature.

Afterall, it’s not easy keeping everything in line.

Especially not for one of the richest, most powerful men in the country.

Upon rising to my feet, I retrieve the black oversized hoodie that’s draped on the back of my chair, slip it along with my black balaclava mask in place, flick up the hood leaving only my stare exposed, and exit my first floor, personal office, where I do most of my meetings with the face of our company.

The trek from there to the front door is not only short.

It’s thankfully empty.

Void of framed portraits.

Shelved accolades.

Colorful creations purchased for the sake of charity or chosen to change the course of someone’s career.

This is one of the few sections of the manor where existence and penance don’t have to meet.

At least not until you pass the indoor fountain.

Outside, a short distance from the main double door entryway, is Clark Baker, one of the oldest members of the household who was also quite close with both my parents, waiting to escort me across the grounds in one of the golf carts used for everything except golf.

Because I hate golf.

I’ve only kept the course my parents had installed because they had it installed.

I’ve changed very little about the entire estate since their deaths.

Very.

Little.

Getting in the vehicle occurs in silence as does the beginning of the drive across the property. The warm, late spring wind whips past us, pushing what I imagine to be the last batch of dead leaves into our path, needlessly reminding me once more that despite the fact I stay locked away, another winter season has passed since I buried them.

Since they should’ve buried me .

“ Sir ,” Clark gingerly begins, collecting my stare away from where it had wandered away, “I know I’ve already asked this; however, is there anything – anything at all – you’d like me to take the liberty of ordering for Ms. Lauren on your behalf? Is there anything you think might bring her comfort during her…seemingly steady state of decline?”

I adjust my hood as one of the newer yard workers trimming the green shrubbery attempts to steal a glance of me. “You know her as well as I do-”

“ Better, Sir. ”

“Yet you don’t know me well enough by now not to call me Sir?”

“Force of habit that comes when dealing with affairs that are about you as opposed to directly dealing with you , S-” the deep throat clearing causes him to correct, “ Wes .” He momentarily allows desperation to cake his caramel beige complexion. “I know exactly what would bring Lauren the most comfort except it is not a what but a who .”

I shove my hands into the pocket of my hoodie in silent refusal.

No.

That rule will not change.

Cannot change.

For anyone.

“Wes-”

“No.”

“I understand your position, but-”

“There is no but.” Narrowing my gaze at him precedes our stopping in front of the one-story guesthouse I transitioned into a medical suite. “And there is no discussion to be had. Understood?”

He turns the key to kill the engine on a clipped, “ Yes, Sir. ”

Petty.

Yet I’ll let him have it.

This time.

Clark swallows his own annoyance to present me with a more professional expression. “Would you like me to accompany you inside?”

“Would you like to accompany me inside?” I slide out on my side. “Perhaps ask Lauren herself if there’s flower or tea or crocheting needle that might lift her spirits a bit?”

“She doesn’t crochet.”

“You’re right,” my tone does its best to become mirthful. “You do know her better than me.”

A small smirk is flashed prior to him escorting me up the cement paved path in silence.

I don’t want everyone to be as miserable as me.

I just can’t afford the price of their happiness.

To my surprise, Matt Hamilton, the concierge doctor for me along with the entire estate staff, is sitting on the entryway bench, tablet in hand, sandy skinned fingers frantically tapping on the screen. “Wes.”

“Hamilton.”

“Clark.”

“Doc.”

The full bearded male who’s only a decade older than I am doesn’t stop his typing to state, “I wish I had better news for either of you.”

I remove both my hood and mask now that I’m once more secure indoors. “But you don’t.”

He shakes his head slowly, finally pausing his actions to deliver us his full attention. “It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes sense. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those trying not to be cancelled medical dramas.”

“You hate those,” Clark cheekily inserts.

“I despise those,” he echoes in exasperation.

“Lauren’s quite the fan,” the man beside me warmly announces. “Particularly of House .”

“Yes, in spite of all of her debilitating symptoms, she managed to fully communicate that.” His sneer is attached to an eye roll. “And I can’t believe these words are about to leave my mouth, but I wish that sonofabitch was actually real to call for a consult.”

His statement furrows my brow.

“I've run numerous tests. Just about every test I can think of and have nothing conclusive. She has symptoms. I can see them. You can see them. A blind man could see them, but all of her labs are fine. Maybe an elevated number here or there but not enough that it can’t be written off as the human body just doing what the human body does. Fluctuate . The symptoms appear to come and go in an unpredictable pattern as though an underlying disease or cause is playing hide-and-seek.” The grip on his device grows tighter. “It’s an anomaly, Wes. And you know I fucking hate those.”

That makes two of us.

“ Even more so when they’re medical. ”

Unsure of what to say leads me to saying nothing.

“Should we take her to Highland North Medical Center?” Clark cautiously suggests. “Perhaps have her see some sort of specialist?”

“Hamilton is a specialist.”

“While I am a doctor of internal medicine-”

“Which is a specialty.”

“-I am not equipped to run more complex diagnostic tests from this facility. I need more equipment-”

“Bill me for whatever you need.”

“-more space-”

“We’ll expand the minute she’s healed enough to move back to the main property.”

“-and other departments, Wes.”

At that my mouth resumes its shut position.

“Do you think it would be in her best interest – at this time – to relocate her?” the man at my side level headedly inquires.

“I’m not sure.”

“Then until you are , she stays here,” I coldly declare. “End of discussion.”

“Discussion implies there’s room for another opinion that isn’t yours,” Hamilton thoughtlessly disputes. “I don’t think that’s what happened here.”

“And I don’t pay you to have philosophical discussions with me.” Firmly folding my arms across my chest is promptly executed. “I pay you for your medical expertise, so provide it, or I will find someone else who can.”

“ Weston ,” Clark hisses in a chastising nature.

“What is your… medical assessment regarding Lauren right now ?”

“Still…developing.” His scrub covered frame rests against the back of the bench. “It honestly could just be something environmental. An allergen of sorts. Something in the air – I know you had new foliage planted recently. It could be a new spice – I know Lucky loves to experiment. Hell, it could even be a product the staff has been using that over time her body can no longer tolerate. I wanna monitor her labs for a couple more days and then move her to the cleanroom. If she doesn’t get any better in there – or her vitals drop – she’ll need to be choppered to the hospital.”

Dread dribbles down my spine, yet I force myself to concede on a single nod.

I don’t want Lauren to die because of me.

I already have enough blood on my conscience.

“You need to contact her family,” Hamilton continues, glare locked onto mine. “Let them know what’s going on. Give them a chance to see her in case she doesn’t recover.”

“There’s a chance she won't recover?”

“There's always a chance when someone contracts an illness that they won’t recover, Wes. Doctors are healers and helpers, not magicians. We do what we can, but even our best at times can fail.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying that my patient’s family has the right to this same information – not delivered over the phone – and a chance to be a part of the decision-making process particularly before it becomes a death sentence deliberation.”

“Her contract specifically states-”

“ Wes ,” he sharply snips me into silence, “sometimes being surrounded by loved ones such as your children , can have a positive impact on a person’s condition.”

No.

I can’t do that even if I wanted to.

And I don’t want to.

It’s selfish.

It’s stubborn.

It’s heartless.

And I don’t care.

That’s not how this works.

That’s not how my life works.

People don’t visit .

I don’t have guests.

I can’t have strangers around me.

It’s not safe.

For me.

For them.

For anyone.

Just getting new household employees allowed on the premises anywhere near the main house damn near requires a presidential order and the full force of a military branch.

Invitations aren’t something I extend.

Ever.

“ I can’t do that, Hamilton, ” I deny the request just above a whisper. “ And you know it. ”

“No.” His head tips challenging to one side. “You won’t do that, Wes. There’s a difference.”

“Not as far as I’m concerned.”

“Which is exactly the problem.”

“Is that your medical expertise or your philosophical one again?”

“Excuse me, Wes?” a soft, feminine voice unexpectedly interrupts the conversation.

There’s no hesitation to turn to face the voice.

Penny Astrid, one of the youngest maids I have, delivers me an uncomfortably warm smile that I don’t bother returning.

Maybe I should.

Maybe I should be nicer to her.

Maybe I should at least try to be nicer to the redheaded, green-eyed, pale ivory-skinned female who desperately want me to like her.

Except she doesn’t want me to simply like her.

Because I do like her.

Enough.

She wants me to be interested in her in a way I can’t be.

Won’t be.

Haven’t been in over a decade.

Putting those facts aside, I would never be a good match for her.

She’s young and full of life and potential and optimism – all high selling factors Lauren used while begging me to hire her. Penny looks at me and idiotically dreams about the man she thinks she can fix me into rather than the man I actually am.

The man who changes for no one.

Especially not some dopey eyed schoolgirl struggling to become a horticulturist.

When Penny doesn’t immediately continue talking, I forcefully bite, “ Yes? ”

“I was instructed to assist Lucky in the janitorial rounds of collecting dishes and offering beverage services to those around the estate?”

“Is that a question?”

“It’s…um…it’s a statement?”

“It ended in a question mark.”

“It did?”

“As did that.”

“Um…” she nervously tucks her long locks behind her ear and nervously nibbles on the corner of her lip.

“ The point , Penny. ” Clark’s violent throat clearing pushes me to attempt to be nicer. “What was the point of you telling me that?”

Her crystal gaze floods with additional anxiousness as she tugs at her fitted black uniform dress. “Did you… Do you… um…want…”

“You to finish the question?” The lifted eyebrow she’s given is far from kind. “ Quickly would be preferable.”

“Beverage services,” Clark swiftly steps in to assist the relatively new employee, “are meant to be extended to the guests of Mr. Wilcox-”

“ Wes. ”

“ Wes ,” he unhappily huffs his correction, “first. Second, comes the senior consulting staff,” an open palm is gestured toward the man on the bench, “such as Dr. Hamilton.”

“Would you like anything to drink, Dr. Hamilton?” She promptly questions, regaining a bit of confidence. “I understand the kitchen in the hospital suite has stricter policies and procedures, but I promise you I’m aware of them and will not do anything to disrupt or disturb you or Lauren.”

His decline is overly polite, “No, thank you, Penny.”

“Dr. Hamilton is currently the only consulting staff on hand at this time. Therefore…” Clark kindly waves his hand for her to take over the conversation.

Or perhaps end it.

I would like that.

“Senior staff with administrative roles!” Penny gleefully squeaks. “Clark, would you care for an afternoon beverage?”

“No, thank you.”

“Cassandra has the day off, and Lucky is drinking straight from the wine bottle he swears is for cooking…” she mutters to herself while counting on her fingers. “And then there’s…” more mumbles occur under her breath until she eventually squeaks a second time. “Lauren! Am I allowed to check on Lauren, now? See if she would like her afternoon tea?”

My eyes instantly cut back to Hamilton. “Can she continue to have tea?”

“I’d rather she not.”

It’s impossible not to spot the sadness in Clark’s stare. “Of any kind?”

“No.”

“What about hot, lemon water?” Penny eagerly tries again. “Can she have that? It’s been known to aid in immune system boosting.”

“It does possess that capability,” Hamilton reluctantly agrees which inevitably leads to him nodding. “ Fine. She can have hot, lemon water. That’s just two basic ingredients. Two basic nonharmful ingredients. However, I’m still marking it in her chart. For all we know, she might suddenly become allergic to lemons.”

Despite my eyes rolling over his dramatic tactics, Penny happily croaks, “I’ll go make that for her. And you?” This time her tone is more of a caring coo as she creeps just a centimeter close. “Can I get you anything, Wes? Anything at all?”

Her subtext is far from subtle.

Much like my interest.

“ No. ”

Whether it’s the curtness she verbally receives or the irritation she’s nonverbally dealt that has her quickly scurrying away, I’m unsure.

I also don’t care.

Redirecting my full attention back to Hamilton is preceded by him announcing, “Look, I’m gonna run a couple samples to the private lab we use offsite . Get them tested. Check for a couple more complex possibilities. See what else I can rule out or rule in. ” He rises to his feet prompting Clark to step back, yet I remain unmoved. “Do what you will about this situation, Wes, but I’m actively asking you – as not her doctor but her friend – give my suggestion about allowing her daughter a chance to visit some actual consideration. And I don’t mean the dead eyed stare thing you do while nodding to give the illusion you are considering an alternative to what you’ve already decided.” His dark gaze burrows further into mine. “I mean actually mull it over. Lauren’s devoted the last ten years of her life to this estate. To you. Doesn’t she deserve something more than a possible death sentence and extra loaded paycheck for that?”

His callous comment constricts my throat.

Causes my jaw to clamp tight.

He shoulders himself past me; however, I don’t object.

Or continue the conversation.

Or even contemplate arguing again.

Because there’s no reason to keep having this fucking discussion.

The problem isn’t with what Lauren deserves.

It’s with what she doesn’t.

And I know if I fulfill Hamilton’s request by bringing her daughter into this fortress of desolation and dolorousness, I’ll end up destroying all that she has left.

I’ve already taken so fucking much from one person.

I’m not sure I can survive taking any more.